


chasing the river

by waterlit



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Introspection, Tragedy, War, old fic, thoughts they might have at night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-10 10:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15289287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlit/pseuds/waterlit
Summary: They all have their own burdens to bear.





	chasing the river

i. Allen Walker

Few people hear screams the way he does.

The screams linger long in the night, a breeze caught in the curtain, a hand on his throat, fingers inching up his face—constricting, restricting, and he can't breathe.

A scratchy melody plays up outside the window; perhaps from the branches of a sleeping tree beating on glass; perhaps from a cat studying the marble walls. But all he thinks of is _Mana, Mana, oh Mana_. The name resounds in his head, bouncing through his throat, hanging on the edge of his tongue like a serpent coiling for a bite.

Sometimes he wonders if he's the one doing all that screaming. They don't seem quite real, and there are nights he wakes with something stuck in his throat, something cold as the night, his breath a guttering candle, and the weight of salvation pressing down on his sternum, and he _knows_ —

The dead are calling. The dying are waiting.

And they are at a standstill, waiting, _waiting_ , for the feather that will tip the scale.

* * *

 

ii. Lenalee Lee

One by one they fall, a kiss off the parapet, disappearing into the good, empty night. Heartbeats stutter to a close; and eyelids fall over eyes that no longer see, and hearts are heavy in their chests.

Lenalee kneels at the back, her knees almost touching the coffin before her. So many have gone down the long road; she wonders if some day she too will go down into the darkness, all alone.

In the morning, the sun climbs up the sky, and sifts through the dust on the floors of the Order. Sometimes Lenalee fancies that she can see footprints where there are none, a distant recall of days long past, of souls that walk even as their bodies lie in eternal rest.

She isn't sure, though.

The whispers always come and go, treading through the nights and gone by day, until at last all she sees is an empty world, marked by the scant prints of feet, while graves lie all around.

Everyone is leaving too soon, too soon, and here she is, thinly spread, mortal born and bred, the scythe hanging above her head.

* * *

 

iii. Kanda Yu

The petals always fall faster than he wants them to.

It's like this year after year; the winds sweep across his vision and again the petals fall, clouding the broken ground and soaking up the spilled blood.

He wonders what he has lost in the years that have flowed past, echoes of what-could-be stepping off the boat as it floats down the river of time, memories gone and lost like the dying stars.

Kanda hates the world.

* * *

 

iv. Lavi

Generations of Bookmen have come before him, all dedicated to fulfilling the one purpose of their clan.

Lavi sits in one of the darkest corners of the library, shadows falling over his lap. The lure of sleep lies in the dusty corners, while ancient thoughts slumber upon the solid panelled shelves. He turns a page, glancing briefly over parchments stained with age. So many hands have touched this book—these books—before him.

He can feel the weight of their expectations, the glory of their times—

And fears he will ruin it all.

These days, all he can think about is war, and the morality of it. War isn't something relegated to the side-notes of history. It is something living, something breathing, something to be worried about. But Bookman says, _no, no, keep your mind clear and open_ , but Lavi can't do it.

He spends hours trudging through the records, seeking to bridge his thoughts.

But in those shredded, yellowed parchments he finds only the shadow of hope, reprimands springing from every dotted i and every crossed t, the burdens of the years blistering in all their glorious scope.

He finds little hope.

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on FFN in Oct 2011.


End file.
